This morning's episode of Rev's Blog is brought to you by crippling snowstorm and the letters N, Y, and C.
Basically, I'm the only person in my entire office right now, so I'm the boss. And the boss says Blog.
So yeah. In New York there's lots of snowfall, weather people calling for Armageddon, Public Schools are closed and sent out a memo suggesting cannibalism both for survival and to protect children from the horrors of having to live in a real-life Day After Tomorrow.
Let's be honest, I'd rather be eaten alive than watch it again.
I got to work on time. A few minutes early, actually. I blame my stubbornness, my inescapable work ethic and my Central New York snow belt upbringing.
I got ready 10 minutes earlier than normal and slipped on my hiking boots.
My God, I had forgotten how comfortable these are. They were still covered in sand from Mount Marcy, but once I got out into the snow and sludge, they proved again that they are worth every penny I spent on them. Walking to the subway was as comfortable as gliding across a carpet made of Angels' sex organs.
This picture represents snow. Or the blinding light of Angeldongs. But mostly it represents my refusal to do a google search for 'Angel Sex Organs' on my work computer.
UPDATE: Ok, now I'm blogging from home, as my work closed early. So, hooray, I suppose. Still I'm not doing that google search. Let it go, man, let it go.
So sometimes I think: "Geez, nothing blogworthy has happened to me lately." It's a sad state of affairs I'm in when my life is reduced to two categories: blogworthy and filler. It's not gotten that drastic yet, but two entries about what to do between places on the subway? Yikes.
Sometimes though, I have an embarrassment of riches. Like recently. In the past two weekends, The Revs came to town and the Superbowl happened.
I'll talk about the first one first. It was a fun visit and I'm glad they made it, but meteorological timing needs to be worked on. As soon as they rolled into Manhattan, the temperature took a nose dive from tolerably chilly to witch's titty right quick.
(not searching for that either).
So that cut down on photos of the trip, as operating a camera would risk exposure and frostbite. We saw Billy Elliot and Rock of Ages. My mom did insist on a photo with Constantine:
Look at that big woman in the background. Ha! Now you can't ignore her.
The next day, we took a tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I got one good photo from there. We were walking through the Greek and Roman Statue hall when my Dad whispers to me: "Get your camera out and turn around."
And thank God I did:
New desktop image.
Oh Hercules (or Heracles, not sure which), you're going to fulfill the nudity quota for this post. Also, thanks for making me look good by comparison.
And then the Superbowl. I hope everyone got what they wanted from the game. Whether it be commercials or the Saints winning or whatever. I didn't have much invested in the game at first.
I was invited to a friend's house to watch the game, and that was in Brooklyn. To get there I would take the G train. As far as I can tell, G stands for Ghost train, because it only exists when you're not looking for it. It could also stand for Go to hell, because that's what I feel it's communicating most of the time.
I got all ready to head out. I Grabbed my coat and a freshly baked pumpkin pie, because I'm training to be a fantastic houswife, apparently.
I left the house at 5:30 PM. By 7:00 I had gotten no farther than Queensboro Plaza. For those of you not in the geographic know, if you called me at home and said "Hey I'm at Queensboro Plaza, come meet me." I would say "Cool, I can be there in 20 minutes" (Assuming, of course that I know who you are and/or would want to meet up with you in the first place).
Make that 5 minutes.
Now the observant among you will notice that 20 minutes does not equal 90 minutes, and may wonder what was going on for that hour and ten minutes of missing time.
First off, the G train was not running, a fact that they neglected to post at the first station I sat waiting for the G train to arrive.
Next, I took an R train to the next station, where there is a person on duty. I got off the train, and read the posters that casually mention something to the effect that the G train does not exist for you, sucka. And that fools looking for it would need to transfer to shuttle buses. And that such fools would then be the object of pity.
Putting the T back in MTA.
While I was reading this poster, an E train arrived and left. Let it, I thought. Who wants the E train anyway? I'm taking a shuttle bus from this stop, Queens Plaza. So I headed up to the information booth to find out where I can get on this bus.
The whiteboard inside of the booth had this message scrawled on it: NO SHUTTLE BUSES AT THIS STATION, TAKE THE E TRAIN ONE STOP.
So I waited for the next E train to come around (no small feat for Sunday evening service). When it finally did, I got off at the correct stop and went aboveground. There were plenty of helpful signs pointing out where to go to get on Shuttle Buses that went to the stops for the 7 train.
I'll take this moment to remind you that I did not want the 7 train shuttle buses. The location of the G bus seemed to be a closely guarded secret.
There I was, wandering around in the cold and dark of 6:45 PM at the base of the CITI tower (the tallest building in Queens) with NO idea where I was going.
It's time for a memory test: did you remember that this entire time I've been carrying a freshly baked pumpkin pie? If so, Gold Star for you and you can come over here and eat some of it with me.
So there's me, scrawny pale young man alone on a desolate street with a fresh pie. I discussed this with my Dad and we decided the only reason I wasn't killed by homeless people is that they thought it was a trap.
I was far too easy and tempting of a target to be for real. After all, the Cheesecake Ambush of '94 was Giuliani's first big success against the homeless population.
I wasn't all stubborn aimless wandering. I asked the driver of the 7 shuttle bus to point me in the direction of the G shuttle. He did, and I thanked him for his straight-faced, sincere-sounding lies and went on my way.
By 7:00 I had found my way back to Queensboro Plaza and said something to the effect of "Eph this, I'm taking my pie and going home."
And so I did. Subastar and I caught part of the game at a bar on Ditmars, and watched the final quarter on the big flatscreen TV at Tasty's Diner. Despite the transit woes, we had a great time and I consider the night to be a success.
But seriously though, come on over. I have a whole pie to get rid of now.
Peace out Folks,